


Dust, Consuming;

by notparticularly



Category: Beowulf: Return To The Shieldlands (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, I'll add character and relationship tags as I add chapters, Multi, Not linear, Tags will be added but there's going to be frank discussions of mature themes in later chapters, This is half a love letter to Rheda and half a character study, Women In Power, after its done ill post a timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notparticularly/pseuds/notparticularly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Women like her don't have the luxury of a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. choose to keep him close;

The boy is standing by his horse, staring forlornly at Herot’s great hall where Hrothgrar should be dining – alone tonight, save his war trophies. In his hands is a month’s worth of rations, a sturdy belt, and a roughspun travelling cloak. All he has to his name – all given as farewell gifts to the no-longer-Ward of the Jarl. Rheda almost winces at the thought of him, alone in the Edgelands, at the mercy of whatever brigands cross his path on the road.

(But this is the child who brought down a beast. He will be fine.)

She wanted, at the very least, for someone to escort him to Bregan, to make sure he gets on a boat safely. Hrothgar’s rage at this slight, however, is stronger than she had feared. Beowulf shall live and thrive, she’s sure of it, but it will be that much harder for him on his own.

And so she stands at the gates, she and the old blacksmith, to see him off. Just the two, from a settlement of hundreds. As the boy mounts the horse, she meets the eyes of the blacksmith and motions with one hand.

From the fold of his cloak, he produces a soft leather sheath, Huskarla quality. Inside is a thin but sturdy sword, light and well balanced. It will serve him well. The boy looks at her, puzzled, then nods his thanks.

And just like that, Beowulf is gone from Herot.

(Just like that, Rheda has sent him to his death.)

* * *

 

Months after, when Beowulf is almost forgotten in the ever-changing seasons of Hrothgar’s favour, Slean comes and sits by her as she watches the Huskarla play-fighting in the dawnlight.

He’s silent for a moment, deliberating. Her son thinks deeply, sometimes too deeply, forever worried that his words will offend, or anger, or mortify. And then he speaks, voice soft.

“Why did you lie for me that day?”

Rheda’s been expecting the question, has seen it on her son’s lips every time he bids her good morning. That fact doesn’t make answering it any easier. She had hoped Slean would be older when he asked, or she had thought to prepare an excuse. It’s not something a boy wants to hear.

She sighs, then, and smiles thinly at him.

“Your father – he spoke about legitimising Beowulf. Do you know what that means?”

Slean shakes his head.

“It means he would have laws made that said Beowulf was his son rather than his ward.”

“So... he would have been my brother?”

“Yes, more than he was already. But Beowulf is older than you, Slean. Your father wanted to make him your brother so that Beowulf would become Thane instead of you.”

It hurts to say it and it hurts to see the betrayal on Slean’s young face, and for a moment Rheda regrets telling him the truth at all.

(Not the whole truth. She’s left out her own anger.)

But he rearranges his face, already trying to be brave, trying to be a diplomat. Despite their squabbles, Slean had loved Beowulf as the brother he could have become.

Slean says, "Did father have to punish him so harshly?"

And this time Rheda does wince, because Hrothgar never did things by halves, Hrothgar burned like dry kindling and ignored all pleas for mercy. (She had pleaded, through her guilt and fear for the boy, for some sort of lenience. Hrothgar took that as a cue to set the punishment ever higher.) And it had not been about jealousy, or the threat of losing the small hope that at least her son would be Jarl. It had been an attempt to convince her husband that his son was not _weak_ , that he need not turn to a peasant boy for his heir.

She replies, "I never thought your father would send him away." She knows Slean hears the depths of that answer.

The boy stands and leaves, and comes home later with hands and face covered in soot, callouses on his palms.

The blacksmith is a man of few words but he has always been kind. She misses him later, when he’s gone, but Lila is kind too.


	2. choose to stand your ground;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Jarl stares at her and speaks quietly to her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note: i hate hrothgar and this is evident within the text  
> expect some totally not canon worldbuilding and lots of exposition  
> actually pretty cheery, considering

The summer of Rheda’s sixteenth year is prosperous from the beginning, with the First Nets pulling in enough Pandiri and bycatch to last them the season. Trade booms, and when it’s time for the midsummer festival it seems half the Shieldlands have turned up at Bregan’s shores.

She’s on the ramparts seal-watching with Harken, coarse sea wind pulling at their hair and clothes, when Abrecan comes scrambling up the ladder with the news of the Jarl’s arrival. He’s younger than them by three winters and not so languidly disinterested in the festivities.

(She would rather not hear anything about it at all, if her suspicions are correct)

“It’s a show of solidarity,” says Harken with his usual quiet contemplation, “It’s got to be. He’ll acknowledge the customs and traditions of all the Shieldlands to cement the Thanes’ support.” Harken is ever the diplomat, though often guilty of thinking the best of those who do not deserve such a courtesy.

But Abrecan shakes his head. “The Jarl is yet untested in battle, and Father voted against him in Herot. It’s a show of force, a reminder that we not get too big for our boats.”

Harken sighs and soon the boys are in the midst of a heated discussion. Rheda says nothing but keeps a careful eye on the golden and red-cloaked party from Herot. Abrecan has always been a warlike child, but privately she believes this time he may be right.

Slowly, Thanes of other lands begin to congregate at the Herot encampment, and Rheda makes a game of comparing the history and law she knows with the reality before her. At some point during this time she realises she is alone on the ramparts, but perhaps that is for the best.

The Jarl is Hrothgar of Herot, his vibrant red cloak a hallmark of the iron-rich soil around his homeland. His position was cemented just this winter against her father’s better judgement, for he is inexperienced in warfare and his years number barely a score and five. In person he is broad and tall, his hair the colour of straw and his smile easy. He laughs at bawdy jokes and spars with his men in the afternoon.

Beside him and laughing louder is Lagrathorn of the Banning, who was fostered at Herot and is firm friends with the Jarl. They are age-mates, but Lagrathorn is stockier with hair as black as the trees that grow in the north. His temperament seems slightly hotter than the Jarl, and he certainly has more of a proclivity for the wineskin.

Garth of the Wisdeth is the next subject of Rheda’s scrutiny. His back is stooped and his wiry frame is tanned dark from years in the sun. By far the oldest remaining Thane, Garth is known to till the fields alongside his subjects, and makes no secret of his disapproval of Herot’s decadent golden hall.

Alone amongst the gathered Thanes in that he has not strayed from his own encampment is Gorrik of the Mere, his windburnt face making his age hard to discern. Rheda knows he is merely a few years older than the Jarl, but the hard life among the dunes has etched deep lines and a suspicious nature upon his young face.

By far the most eye-catching of the group is the handsome Rajen of the Varni, with his bright yellow garb and the glinting silver adornments in his tightly braided hair. At his side are two sons – the elder Scorann, who is sedate and calm and speaking softly to Harken; and Rate, in similar years to Abrecan or slightly younger, who notices her watching and flashes her a cheeky grin.

All of this, later, Rheda relays to her father. He has taught her to be discerning and shrewd, but he purses his lips when Rheda speaks of the Jarl with such distaste. It makes her all the more sure that something momentous is to be decided tonight.

(She tries not to think about what that means)

And she goes, ties herself into a dress of Bregan blue and paints rouge on her cheeks. She feels silly, like a child in her mother's shoes, but the Jarl is looking at her now with something akin to hunger in his gaze.

Something akin to greed.


End file.
